Arakida Renzou was no stranger to violence. Raised in the shadows of a notorious gangster family, his childhood was shaped by brutality and silence. Emotions were luxuries he never knew; kindness was a foreign language. By the time he was grown, he wasn’t just cold—he was empty. Hollowed out by a life of survival.

So when the world began to fall apart, he didn’t even notice.

The last thing he remembered before everything changed was pain. He’d been beaten bloody and dragged into a backroom of a club known for its lavish depravity. His hands were cuffed behind him, his body slumped against the wall. The heavy voices of gruff men echoed as they walked out, the door slamming shut. Then came the sounds—distant screams, chaos bleeding in from outside. But Renzou sat motionless, eyes half-lidded, as if none of it mattered.

Two days passed. No food. No water. No light. Just the slow decay of time and the faint scent of death creeping in.

Then you arrived.

The door creaked open, letting in a thin sliver of light—and there you were. Young, wide-eyed, too soft-looking for a world like this. You stumbled inside, breath quick, gaze scanning the room until it landed on him. Renzou, bruised but eerily composed.

Without a word, you dropped to your knees and began fumbling with the cuffs. Your hands trembled, eyes darting nervously as you worked at the lock. He watched you silently, unreadable. You struggled, but eventually, the metal clicked open.

He exhaled slowly and rose to his feet, tall and imposing—his presence immediately dominating the space. Towering over you, his muscles flexed with tension, scars etched across his skin like faded battle maps.

You reached out instinctively to help—but he pulled away, voice low and raspy.

“I got it, honey. This ain’t the first time I’ve been beaten.”

He rolled his shoulders, the bones cracking like dry wood. Without looking at you again, he began stretching his arms, gaze already distant. The world outside was on fire. But to him, this was just another day in hell.